


Some Sunny Day

by Elphen



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, alternate careers, pub
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - After the death of his wife, Lewis stopped being a detective and instead ended up as a publican in a quiet pub in Oxford. James never became a detective, settling instead on becoming a scholar. So what happens when the two of them still end up meeting?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Up to the moment when we said our first hello

**Author's Note:**

> Shite, I still suck at summaries X( If anyone can come up with a better one, I'm listening.
> 
> Just a little something born out of a thought on what Lewis would have been doing if he hadn't stayed a detective. Publican seemed a good bet.  
> Oh, and the title is taken from "We'll Meet Again", of course by Vera Lynn. Seemed fitting.
> 
> No beta or britpick, mistakes are all mine.

The clink of a glass as it is put back on the rack in the ceiling is startlingly loud in the stillness of the large room.  Dust motes have settled on the surface of the counter; the dance of it as it moves in the rays of noon sunlight is quite pretty, if you think about it.

As his cloth wipes across the counter and obliterates the blanket of dust, he idly ponders this and then mentally shrugs. Pretty or not, they give extra work and constantly so. But then again, there isn’t much else to do at this time of day. A few customers come in for a quiet drink sometimes, but until the ‘rush’ of lunch-time comes, it’s always rather quiet.

It’s in general a quiet pub to run, a little off from normal tourist paths as it is situated, which is part of the reason he decided on this particular one in the first place. Another is that it’s a pub that still to this day holds memories he’d like to keep alive, painful as they can be at times.

He’s been here with his wife a few times, mostly just for them to get away for a bit without needing a babysitter. They’d usually choose that booth over in the corner, furthest from the bar, but just up against the window. Val always claimed that it was cosier there and he, being a wise man in the affairs of marriage, never argued with her; he just smiled and kissed her cheek.

Morse had frequented this pub, too, though, but then again, which pub in the greater area of Oxford _didn’t_ he frequent? It had been a miracle he’d even gotten to that age, when you stopped to think what he’d put his poor body through. Not that he doesn’t miss the old sod, of course he does. Terribly so at times. He is probably the one, right after Val, that Lewis misses the most when he has the time to think about such things.

Losing them both in such a short amount of time – two years are no time at all, really – had been horrible beyond belief and staying in the police force had proven to be too much. First he’d hit the bottle, then he’d hit it harder. Then, one day, he’d looked at himself in the mirror and he’d recoiled at what he saw. Not so much the sagging cheeks or the stubble or rumpled clothes or stained cheeks. It’d been the eyes. Dead and yet filled with such sorrow and despair they’d been and he’d stumbled back and away from the sight.

He’d looked like Morse. On his dark days, towards the end, when Lewis knows he must have been aware of the end coming up, he would turn his head and those strikingly blue eyes, normally brimming with intelligence and passion, looked as dull and dead as glass with no light. It had been heartbreaking and terrifying to behold.

From that day on, he’d slowly picked himself up. Becoming the publican of this pub had been a big help, even though everyone around him had seen it as a way for him to easily get booze and dig himself deeper. But it didn’t – he’s had his wake-up call and now he’s more than content with just serving the drinks. He’s found something to do with his life and while it might be monotonous and dull, it’s what he needs at this point of his life. More than that, he’s rarely alone and he gets to see good things as well as bad. No stomping around ripping up the lives of people in the pursuit of a killer, no having to witness people falling apart. Well, no more than the occasional brawl and the miserable drunk.

The bell jingles as the main doors are pushed open. Lewis doesn’t look up from his current task of checking whether the register’s contents of small change will be sufficient to last through lunch-hours or not. If it’s someone that comes in regularly, they tend to greet him as they enter and if it’s a new face they more often than not comes up quietly and just says whatever’s their fancy. Whatever the case, it’s not something that deserves his attention just yet.

However, the man – the sounds of footsteps are too heavy and far-spaced to be a woman – does neither and instead walks straight past the bar. There’s the sound of leather letting out its breath as it’s sat on and the soft thunks of body parts meeting wood, intentional or not, and then the soft rustling of paper that is probably a book.

It’s quiet after that and Lewis, never having looked up from his preoccupation to get a look at the newcomer, forgets that the man is even there. A few others come and go; old faces he knows are only here for the quiet drink and whatever gossip Susan, his barmaid, has gotten hold of.

It was funny, really, in the beginning. As soon as people found out he’d been a copper – a detective sergeant, even – they’d started asking questions about that life, as if he needed reminding, and soon after that had come the assumption that he must be keeping tabs on everyone and would have some wonderful stories to tell about the other patrons. As Susan had pointed out, and as he well knew himself from his own days, nobody gossips like a copper. Too bad he’d disappointed them by just smiling and saying nothing whenever they implied or insinuated anything. Eventually they’d gotten the point.

Lunch comes and goes, bringing in a surprisingly large amount of people. There are a few students – they turn up when they’ve got the money and want something that’s still common but more culinarily exciting than beans on toast – there’s a lecturer and a few suits and one elderly lady with a twinkle in her eye and the ability to chat one’s ear off. Luckily Susan’s there to help him out whenever she’s not busy flirting with the students. _Arh, to be young...is not all it’s cracked up to be_ , Lewis thought wryly, smiling at her. She’s adept and clever for her age, though, and with her around, he only needs the cook and another guy for the evenings he wants off. It’s almost perfect, really.

When everyone in for their noon meal has filed out to go about their own business, the ex-copper clears the tables while the young woman starts on filling the dishwasher. It’s quiet again and the dullness of the routine is wonderful to his sometimes racing thoughts. He blames Morse for that, too; sharpening his mind throughout the years in that rough, but loving way he had. He knows he’s never been stupid; if he had, he’d never have made DS, after all. But Morse must have seen something in him to stick with him through his blunderings in the beginning; the old sod normally never had much patience for idiocy.

An unmistakable click alerts him to the fact that the booth where the quiet man sat is still occupied.

“Oi, don’t you dare. I haven’t got a license for that.” The man about to light up looks up at the barked comment and just stares at the older man for a moment. Pale eyes – contrary to popular belief, especially those female-targeted novels, eye colour isn’t that easy to determine, especially at a distance – bores into his own, seemingly trying to assess him and then the man smiles.

“Of course, my apologies. Forgot where I was.” The voice is a baritone; deep but not overly so. Just enough to sound manly and grown-up, but smooth and cultured, in fact. Very polite he is, too, though a little archaic. Too old to be a student, given the lines on the face and the cut of the suit. Scholar, then, perhaps even a lecturer.

Lewis gets no further in his deductions, subconscious as they are, before the man stands up, shoving his book back into his satchel – it’s an old one, judging from the style and the wear, not one of those fashion-versions that are all the rage at the moment – and slinging it onto his shoulders.

He stops as he walks past the brunette, who’s still bent over wiping a table. “Thank you. For letting me sit here when I didn’t order anything. Even when you were full up. That was most kind of you.” With that, he walks out of the pub, long legs carrying him perhaps just a little bit quicker than seems necessary.


	2. But I know we'll meet again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James returns to the pub and Susan is interfering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...who firmly thought this one was dead? Who even cares? Well, nevermind that. It isn't dead - the computer it was on was, though. It's taken me a long time to get it working again and restore the documents and I found that I had actually written the second chapter. So here.
> 
> Thank you for the feedback on the first chapter :)
> 
> No betas or britpickers, mistakes and plotholes are mne alone

It takes a few weeks before the Quiet Man, as Lewis seems to have mentally named him, comes in again. It’s the same time of day and the same quiet atmosphere. It might even be the same motes of dust being wiped off the counter, for all Lewis knows. It certainly does seem like it every time he wipes the damn surface down only for it to settle again a few minutes later.

The younger man even takes the same booth. The booth, the northerner notes somewhat absently, that he and Val would choose when they came here. But then again, it is a good place to sit and it’s been occupied more times than he can count. Nothing worth noting, really, so he wonders why he does.

Lunch turns out to be a blur, though an excruciating one. Apparently some hotshot has singled this pub out for taking his corporate international cronies out to experience ‘ye goode olde charme’ – and Lewis’ inner Morse cringes and curses as the guy says just that and manages to get _every single word_ _wrong_ – of a secluded English pub. They’re loud, demanding and manages to piss off just about everyone. Thankfully they’ve got plenty of other things Hotshot wants them to see in Oxford, so they don’t stay much longer than the rest of the clientele, who admittedly files out of there with apologetic and slightly pitying looks as soon as they’re done eating. Not that any of the staff blames them.

When all has finally gone back to the quiet and they’ve once more cleared out and cleaned everything, the ex-copper takes a look around, hands on his hips, looking for anything they might have missed first time around.

While scanning the room he finds the Quiet Man looking at him. Not just a passing glance either; he looks and keeps looking like he’s trying to figure Lewis out just by looking at him. It should be unsettling and the older man is sure it would be for just about everyone else. But if you work as a policeman for 20 years, not to mention as the bagman of _Morse_ , you soon learn to take those kinds of stares in stride. Hell, he’d even gotten good at giving them himself over the years.

So instead he opts to smile and the blonde – the hair is strangely enough cropped close, which does not fit the suit or the face, given how the ears stick out slightly – blinks, once, and after giving a smile so fleeting it’s difficult to know whether it was really there, turns his gaze back down on the book he’s reading.

A few minutes later his head jerks up again, though, at the sound of a full glass being plonked down on the table. It’s then lifted again and a beer-mat placed on the wooden surface before the glass comes down again.

“So, finished your rota?”

“I beg your pardon?” The pale eyes widen ever so slightly in what must be surprise, either at being spoken to or the choice of words.

 “Most people drift towards specific pubs, more often than not ending up with one or two ‘locals’. You’ve only been here once before, which was a few weeks ago. If you’d settled on this as a local, you’d have been in here a few times between then and now. On the other hand, if you’d decided against this becoming a regular watering hole, you wouldn’t have bothered coming back at the same time of day as last time. That suggests you’ve been checking out different pubs and have decided this one deserves at least a second chance.” Lewis smiles at the expression on the other man’s face when he finishes; sort of suspicious yet mostly intrigued.

“And you’ve brought me a beer as an incentive to choose this place?” Surprisingly, the light baritone voice hasn’t got any hint of annoyance or offense, which would have been understandable. Instead there’s the same slightly suspicious intrigue also present in his expression.

“Nah. None of my business – got plenty of patrons, really, and I’m no advertising berk. You come and go as you choose and please and before you ask why the beer, then, well – you looked thirsty, lad.” The former copper raises his eyebrows and his smile widens as he finishes speaking. The explanation seems to pass muster; the almost-invisible eyebrows unknot and the lips smooth out from the slight frown they’ve been pressed into. There’s even a slight nod.

“You can sit here,” the blonde calls out just as the publican is about to walk away, back to work, which causes him to turn his head and raise a questioning eyebrow. He could swear it’s the wrinkles on his forehead that makes the job heavier each time he does so.

“For your lunch, I mean. You don’t seem the type to eat alone. If you’d like to, of course.” Well, what do you know? The lad actually seems a little embarrassed that the words have passed his lips. The frown is back and he’s looking down on his papers as if he’s never said anything.

Lewis turns away as if to contemplate the suggestion, though in reality he’s hiding a small, triumphant grin. He was right; the man is definitely a scholar, classic of some sort, who’s either not familiar with or just out of touch with the social norms. The fact that he’s not brought anyone here either time also points in that direction. Lad must be lonely, but the northerner’s done his “community service” with socially awkward Oxbridge intellectuals and then some and there must be better alternatives for the man, so Robbie has a mind to decline as politely as he can.

“That’s very kind of you. Don’t normally eat lunch, though.” He still hasn’t turned around, has no intention to, really, but he can almost _hear_ the face falling even as the blonde still pretends he’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading. Yep, definitely not used to interacting with people outside the absolute minimum required for his profession.

“If you didn’t eat lunch, sir, there’d be no chance of you putting on that spare tyre you’ve got around your middle as efficiently as you have,” comes a lilting voice from the bar. The former sergeant looks up and attempts to glare at Susan, who’s grinning and winking. Too cheeky and meddlesome by half, that one – perhaps that was something they learned in school in Ireland.

“What he means is he’ll be right over,” she tells the blonde man with another grin. Lewis, not noting the look of slightly awkward embarrassment flashing across the other man’s face, stalks after her as she runs off to the kitchen and catches her by the arm in the doorway.

“Oi, what’s the game, lass? You know I don’t eat lunch and certainly not with customers. The beer was just being nice.” He tries for strong and commanding, but he knows he hasn’t mastered that voice since Lyn was old enough to go to discos. Christ, he feels old.

Susan merely grins at him again and for a second he wishes he was at least 20 years younger. Always been partial to auburn and dimples, he has.  She picks up a plate of what looks like a proper BLT sandwich – looks like two of them, in fact – and pushes it into the hand he’s not holding her arm with.

“He looks lonely; you _are_ lonely, sir. It won’t do any harm just to share your lunch with him and as you said, this _is_ his second time here. One could wonder why.”

“Probably just likes the interior. Lay off, lass. You’ve tried pairing me with just about every female in the area, which is sweet and all, but I draw the line at the lads.” That had always been the wisest choice back when he’d joined the force and then Val happened. He looks back out into the room where he can see the probably-scholar staring contemplatively at his beer. “He does look lonely, though,” he admits grudgingly.

“What’s wrong with a girl wanting her boss to have just a little joy in his life? Even if it is just the time it takes to smear a BLT all over your face,” she grins at him and before he has time to express his offense at...well, everything, she’s wriggled from his grip and disappeared through the kitchen door to smoke the one cigarette she’s allowed herself that day. She’s trying to quit, he knows, and he doesn’t fancy getting chewed out because she feels she’s been ‘caught’ smoking, so he decides not to follow.

Instead he looks back towards the table where the young man is sitting. His face is by this point distant and impassive and it doesn’t take a seasoned copper to see that it is very much a carefully crafted mask. A mask that’s been practiced so often it is almost second nature, that is true, but a mask nonetheless.  Lewis estimates that he has about 5 minutes to get out there before the young man will pack up his things and stand up, rather stiffly, before stalking out of the building.

He sighs. Susan does have a point, bloody cheeky though she is. The lad does look lonely and there can’t be much harm done just sharing lunch with a customer who seems like...Morse, in a strange kind of way. Same intelligent gaze glazed with the slight worry that they are doing things wrong, socially. Morse, of course, wouldn’t let on in his behaviour, but it was there alright, if one knew to look.

Just as the scholar is about to stuff his papers back into his satchel, there’s the oddly deep clink of a plate hitting thick wood. He looks in surprise at the two slightly haphazard, though admitted delicious looking sandwiches sitting on the plate and then looks up, face returned to the carefully impassive look.

“I don’t seem to recall ordering any food for myself,” he comments dryly, managing to sound inquisitive and thoroughly, nonchalantly bored in the same sentence. A very intellectual thing indeed.

_Oh, you are messing with the wrong publican, lad!_ Lewis thinks, raising an eyebrow. “Well, must be a mind reader then, mustn’t I?” he comments cheerfully as he takes the seat opposite. “To deduce you were hungry, that is.” He takes a bite, chews in a thoughtful kind of way and swallows audibly. “Mind you, it wasn’t that hard. Truth to tell, your stomach growling as soon as you smelt food was a bit of a give-away, lad.”

The blonde man looks like he’s about to argue, but glances down as his stomach decides to make another loud growl. When he looks back up, there’s a grin on his face that somehow still manages to be tentative. “Couldn’t that be construed as unlawful gain of information?” he asks in a voice still as dry as autumn leaves, even as his eyes have started to show his mirth.

“Nope,” Robbie answers around another mouthful; then he swallows, less loudly this time. “Me having to go to your stomach’s witness account could be construed as you withholding evidence, though. That’s an offense. Now grab that bloody BLT or you’ll find your sanction for that will be I eat both sarnies.”

The man grins again, properly this time, and his surprisingly large hands for such a beanpole body grabs hold of the sandwiches and guides it towards his mouth. Just as it looks like he’s going to take a bite, he lowers it a little. “James.”

“Originally Iacomus, from late Latin, though we get it from French. Means supplanter.”

The Quiet Man blinks. Then he blinks again. “Well, technically the Romans got it...well, yes. That – that’s my name. James. James Hathaway.”

Lewis grins. He waves his hands slightly to indicate that now’s not the time to be shaking hands. “It’s nice to meet you, James Hathaway. Me name’s Robert Lewis, but just call me Robbie. Everyone else around here does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ain't got much to say, really, other than I love writing these two. A lot. Hopefully some of that transcends.
> 
> Feedback is loved and treasured, but please keep the criticism constructive and useful, yeah?

**Author's Note:**

> So...first meeting. Fairly inauspicious, really. But then again, most first meeting are. Sorry if the build-up seems a little slow, I wanted to set up the "world" a bit first.  
> Chapter title is a line from "Strangers in the night".  
> As always, if I've gone completely off with anything, do tell me - and feedback of any kind, apart from flamers, are more than welcome.


End file.
